


and the walls came tumbling down

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, M/M, Modern AU, so much fluff i think i'm gonna pass out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:43:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is writing a speech.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the walls came tumbling down

**Author's Note:**

> Enjolras is trying to write a speech for Grantaire. It's not going as planned. 
> 
> / inspired by tumblr user bbossuet's post  
> / also partially a LMK fill for Enjolras being unable to say I love you  
> / modern au
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I wrote this at 3AM and didn't proofread whatsoever [throws glitter] this is no literary masterpiece

“Well, Combeferre, say something! You’re sitting there with such a stupefied look on your face and… oh, God, was it that bad? Was it the syntax?! The diction? I knew something was off when I worked on the fourth draft last night, I could _feel_ it, but I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what I was miss~”

 

A laugh bubbles up in his chest and Combeferre starts to chuckle.

 

Enjolras had just spent the last ten minutes reading, with shaking hands, from a paper wherein he’d written his feelings for Grantaire in about every variation humanly possible; he’d glance up at Combeferre with eyes that asked ‘Was that okay? Too cheesy?’ before continuing, often tripping over syllables and growing tongue-tied at his own alliteration.

 

He watches his friend struggle to suppress laughter and glares, “Damn you!”

 

“My apologies,” Combeferre replies. While fixing his glasses, he reads Enjolras’ mind and answers a question he hadn’t asked yet, “It’s not that it was humorous in the least… No, no. I’m laughing because you just spent ten minutes saying you’re in love with Grantaire without _actually saying you’re in love with Grantaire.”_

Enjolras slightly ignores his comment and looks back at his paper with intent; “But was it horrible?”

 

“No,” his friend sighs, “Of course it wasn’t. It’s humanly impossible for you to write something anything less than extraordinary. But, Enjolras, you do realize Grantaire will be overjoyed regardless of your syntax or rhetoric, right?”

 

“It has to be perfect.”

 

\----------- 

 

“…I would stay loyal to you as Alcyone followed Ceyx, regardless of how treacherous the waters…” Enjolras stops for a moment and glares at his reflection in the mirror.

 

 _No, you dimwit, that sounds like some cheesy historical pickup line,_ and he scratches it out in a pen an angry shade of red. Stupid, stupid, stupid speech.

 

Suddenly, he’s staring at himself in the mirror, because his fucking _hand_ is twitching. He never twitches while he gives speeches – _not ever_ – as the art of public speaking is second nature to him and is something he does in his sleep (seriously, when he roomed with Courfeyrac he got complaints at least once a week). But Grantaire throws him so drastically off track that it’s nearly impossible to get back on.

 

Now he’s looking at his hair. Does it always stand so wild like that? Will it distract from his message of utmost importance?

 

Enjolras rips his sixth draft down the middle and throws it to the floor.

 

 -----

 

New Text Message!

 

 **Enjolras:** How does one approach the topic of romance in a way that does not induce nausea?

 

 **Jehan:** Ah, how I’ve dreamt of the day those words would come from your mouth! - J

 

 **Enjolras:** Those exact words?

 

 **Jehan:** Perhaps a variation. My friend Enjolras, I shall point you in the direction of my favorite poems of which speak of love in a most beautiful manner. <3

 

 **Jehan: "** Sonnet CXVI" – Shakespeare :D Oh, you’d probably enjoy "A Decade" by Amy Lowell! It does remind me of Grantaire so!

 

 **Enjolras:** I never said anything about Grantaire.

 

 **Jehan:** You didn’t have to. <3

 

\------ 

 

It’s around six thirty in the morning when Enjolras calls Joly. He counts the phone ring four times as he waits, tapping his fingers against the desk in front of him -- which is covered in drafts of paper.

 

“Hello?” his friend’s voice greets him on the other line and silences the ringing.

 

Enjolras exhales, “Good morning, Joly. I apologize for the early call, but I have a problem I need some help with.”

 

“A medical problem?” he can practically hear the concern lacing itself through his friend’s voice, “Enjolras, it would greatly ease my worry if you’d just take yourself to a doctor’s office, for once in your life…”

 

He shakes his head, “No, no, it’s nothing serious,” and his breath comes out in a frustrated sigh, “Would you just… please listen to my symptoms and tell me what you think?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“You see, I’m trying to write this… thing… this speech, but every time I practice it, my stomach is filled with this strange… feeling. As if someone is wringing it out like it were a piece of fabric. Then I get really hot and shaky, as if I have a fever, but I don’t. I sweat, too; it’s rather unpleasant. And my head feels all spacey and distant and distracted…”

 

Joly’s laugh is a reply. Enjolras is really freaking sick of all the laughing.

 

“Joly, I’m serious.”

 

“I know, and you sound like me,” his friend replies; he then takes a moment to think, “I do believe you’re just suffering from nerves, Enjolras. What speech is this, exactly?”

 

He purses his lips, “An important one.”

 

“…You’re not giving me much to work with. Yes, Enjolras, it’s just nerves. This is something _I_ would be panicking about. No need to worry. You’re healthy and I presume you take those vitamins I got you for your birthday, so everything should~”

 

Enjolras cuts him off more desperately than he really wanted to sound, “But I need to know how to fix it!” after a deep breath, he explains, “It throws off my speech and I screw up all the words.”

 

He’s tapping furiously at his desk, distraught and equally put off by his own inability to deliver a freaking speech.

 

“Well… Try to focus on your breathing. I know you think that sounds elementary, but by breathing deeply through your diaphragm, it could help out with the shakiness and calm your brain a little bit…” Enjolras is writing this down, “Practicing this… speech… should help you out, because familiarity is always good. You are a fantastic speaker, you know that!”

 

It’s as if he doesn’t even hear the last compliment, “Okay, I’ll do that. Thank you, Joly.”

 

“Anytime,” there’s the shuffling of blankets in the background, and Joly’s voice comes back hushed, “Bossuet is stirring; I should probably get off the phone and let him sleep. Are you okay, now?”

 

“Yes. Thanks again,” Enjolras replies, and when he hangs up the phone he drops his head to his hands in defeat.

 

How on earth is he going to do this?

 

\- - - - -

 

At midnight, Grantaire is channel surfing and dumping a bag of Lucky Charms into a cereal bowl when his phone rings. The ringtone is one he rarely ever hears, and it startles him so much that he drops the plastic bowl half-filled with cereal to the floor. It clatters and cereal pieces scatter everywhere; “Shit,” he curses, but he’s too preoccupied with finding his phone to care.

 

And when he does, the caller ID says Enjolras.

 

He answers skeptically – just as he does everything else – and doesn’t bother masking the confusion in his voice, “Hello?”

 

No reply.

 

Grantaire grits his teeth because _I swear if this is some prank call from Courfeyrac –_ but his brain shuts up when he hears Enjolras’ muffled voice in the background of the call; he concludes with a laugh that this is a butt-dial. At midnight.

 

Well, okay. He’s certainly never going to let him live _this_ down. He considers hanging up, feeling a bit weird that he’s virtually listening to Enjolras’ ass sit on the call button (though it’s nice imagery) – but, _wait a moment, did he just say my name?_

 

\----------------------- 

 

“…and Grantaire, I need to finally explain this to you. I can’t allow myself to cower from this, as much as I’d like to…” Enjolras cuts himself off and shakes his head, crossing out the sentence he’d read and muttering “Too cliché.”

 

He taps his pen against his chin for a moment. Perhaps this would be a good place to put in the poem Jehan showed him? Yes, that will work. He scrambles for the piece of paper he had written the poem on and sighs for the umpteenth time. He can’t. Get. It. Right. Grantaire deserves better than this crap.

 

 Clearing his throat, he speaks as if he’s testing the words out on his tongue, “When you came, you were like red wine and honey, / And the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness. / Now you are like morning bread, / Smooth and pleasant. / I hardly taste you at all, for I know your savor, / But I am completely nourished.” He pauses and lets the weight of the words sink in; it’s true. Jehan was right.

 

So, yes, that’s where he’ll put the poem. He continues.

 

“I do not wish to ignore such a feeling anymore, Grantaire. I have tried to for so long, and it is a feeling of utmost despair; I very much enjoy you and your presence, and I would like to have it around… all the time. With me. I believe in you, too, and…” he stutters on the words, choked up again by nervousness; when he coughs and shifts in his chair, something clatters to the ground, and his eyes follow the noise.

 

Dumb iPhone. If he didn’t have that tricolored case, he swears it would have been shattered a long time ago, but-

 

Wait.

 

When he picks it up and goes to wipe off the screen with shaky thumbs, it’s already on. The bright light is stark contrast to the midnight air and it reads clearly:

 

_Grantaire_

 

The call time is three minutes.

 

Enjolras thinks he’s going to faint.

 

He scrambles for his notes he’d taken during his phone call with Joly, and he tries – so desperately tries – to follow his friend’s advice about deep breathing and all of that, but in that moment his walls have crumbled and his breaths come in a pace that is anything but steady. Dammit.

 

He presses the phone to his ear, trembling violently, and hears a familiar voice on the other line; “Cat got your tongue, Apollo?”

 

Oh, shit. He really is going to faint.

 

Grantaire’s voice carries his usual cocky cadence, but there’s something in the depths of it that forces Enjolras to realize that Grantaire heard everything and he _knows._ Now, he wonders if Grantaire is going to faint, too.

 

Enjolras blurts the first thing that comes to mind, “…C-Can I have a redo?” He’s sure his voice resembles that of a teenage boy before puberty.

 

“No. You can't.”

 

Enjolras is sure in about two seconds he’ll be on the ground and staring at the ceiling.

 

“…but I liked your speech.”

 

He’s hanging onto the edge of the chair in order to stay upright, and his hands are clamped so desperately that his knuckles are white; surely, Grantaire is waiting for him to say something. Of course he is. _Enjolras, get it together, dammit._ What does he do now? Oh, dammit, this is bad. Grantaire is already starting to talk again.

 

“I’m going to go ahead and give you an out. I’m sure this was one of your losses to Courfeyrac’s stupid bets, or perhaps you’re just spectacularly drunk and somehow still a fantastic speaker. I don’t care. But whatever it is, this is your out; your chance to pretend it never happened.”

 

The words burn a hole through Enjolras’ ever-weakening resolve, but he takes a deep breath. From his _diaphragm._ He can do this; he knows he can. And he _wants_ to.

 

“I don’t want an out,” he says, speaking firmly, and (Thank God) sounding more like his affirmative and confident self. He needs Grantaire to know that he’s not joking. That he means this with every fiber in his being, with every vessel to his heart, with every sinew in his legs or bones in his fingers. “I want you to come over.” 

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: I made a tumblr for my fic writing! If you have a request or something you'd like to see filled, please come visit me at grahtaire.tumblr.com :) 
> 
> I apologize if you feel like you just wasted your time reading this. Maybe if I actually act productive sometime, I'll throw in some historical notes down here, but now is not that time. 
> 
> Also, I get that there will probably be some pretty obvious grammar mistakes, but please don't nitpick just yet. I couldn't get this idea out of my head and I just had to write it before I fell over and slept. 
> 
> ...I also missed writing for you guys. :) I hope everyone's doing well! 
> 
> (Suffering from end of the North American LM tour depression as well. Boo.)


End file.
